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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29146065">The Improbable But Not Quite Impossible</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasterBonanza/pseuds/ToasterBonanza'>ToasterBonanza</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Piper at The Gates of Dawn [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Barbershop and Opera, Family Dynamics, Food Poisoning, Gen, Guys Being Pals, Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex Work, Inspired by Music, Klingon Culture, Klingon Opera (Star Trek), Meet the Family, Musical References, Musicians, Parent-Child Relationship, Parents never stop being parents, Performing Arts, Pining, Polite to a Fault, Post-Canon, Qo'noS</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:40:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,016</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29146065</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasterBonanza/pseuds/ToasterBonanza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Story 4 of "Piper At the Gates of Dawn"</p><p>Qapla! Doh'Val and Vudic successfuly convinced their two new associates to come to Doh'Val's Homeworld, Qo'noS, and perform in a series for his family patron. The year of harsh travel and danger and heartache--it was all worth it for this moment, four musicians from wildly different places all coming together to make something no one has ever seen before!</p><p>...That is, assuming, any of it works. And nothing could possibly go wrong after this...right?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Piper at The Gates of Dawn [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Tense Homecoming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The most uncomfortable meal Krax had ever witnessed, let alone participated in as a guest.</p><p>What was the decision creating the cascade of events which led him to this domestic melodrama? Was it when he packed up his keyboard? Was it stepping onboard the Starfleet ship which Vudic had persuaded to take them, telling the captain he would accept any punishment on behalf of the other three should they break any rules? Or was it saying yes in the first place to leave his beloved dabo girls and lucrative enterprise and go to a planet that treated its women well but made no room for foreigners?</p><p>Krax should have hopped back onto the transport the moment he met Vudic and Doh’Val’s parents, the way the mothers hugged their children and glared fiercely at each other while the fathers regarded each other with cool discontent. Krax knew liars and these two fancy boys weren’t liars, but something had gone deeply wrong in their absence. And yes, being welcomed by both Tavana and Carl without pretense or prejudice had been heartwarming—until he realized it was because Doh’Val had told them about what made Krax <em>different</em> from other males. He did want them to know! They would understand!...But couldn’t he have told them in his own time?</p><p>And now, he was here in this house on acres of ancient ancestral farming land, amid the finery of the dining room with its tapestries and wood-stone walls stood a square table with austere, high-back benches—all of it bolted down, making escape more difficult. Krax knew that no place was quite like Ferenginar, but he never expected to see the men in the kitchen preparing their meal while a tempestuous argument exploded between the two older women, an argument made even stranger by how Tavana set her house rule that no arguments occur over a meal and Aafia, to Krax’s bewilderment, agreed. Thus, this horrible, uncomfortable meal with a silence that could smother.</p><p>Nearest to the front door, Vudic with his mother and father. Next to the kitchen’s entrance, Doh’Val and his parents. Krax and Minjaral, apparently in the honored position at the table, sat with their backs to a wall. The only sounds: people eating and the hum of a translator box on the table for the benefit of, well, only Minjaral since Krax had his own inner-ear translator and the rest of them spoke the same language.</p><p>“You have a lovely home, Madame Tavana.” Minjaral was visibly put-off by the seething silence which enveloped both hosts and guests. “My own pales in comparison.” Neither he nor Krax could hide the way their eyes were watering at the spices in the food.</p><p>Doh’Val’s mother was how Krax imagined the female Klingon warriors he’d seen in his life looked after retiring to have a family—very deep brown hair with a layer of white ash, rounded angles which softened the face and body, and scars on the fingers, plus the usual age lines and the crinkles around the eyes. The way she coolly acknowledged a man’s compliment with a nod and bat of her eyes would have made his knees weak were he standing.</p><p>An earsplitting clatter. Minjaral dropped his utensil into his bowl. “I cannot tolerate another minute of this. It is untenable and you will either reach a resolution or Mr. Krax and I shall leave.” Not a bad idea….</p><p>Suddenly, everyone—well, everyone except the fathers—were speaking at once. The voices of their two traveling companions blended all too well, but Tavana’s strident voice layered and clashed with Aafia’s smoky tones. <em>Is anyone even aware of their volume?</em></p><p>“Stop, stop, the translator is mixing up everything you say.”</p><p>Doh’Val prevailed. “There is no reason for you to leave us.” He extended his hand to Vudic, clearly a silent plea for some help. “There has been a simple misunderstanding about certain events while we were away. Would you not agree?”</p><p>“Yes. A logical approach is needed to discern the truth.” Vudic was not confident in his words. Krax knew. Maybe no one else could hear it, but he could hear it.</p><p>Madame Tavana’s dark eyes were lit with fury. “Then by logic, your son, Madame Aafia, has done something truly profane if the Imperial Vanguard is demanding to know his whereabouts.”</p><p>Madame Aafia’s smoky voice sounded like glass crunching under a shoe. “The troubles of your family are hardly the fault of my son, Madame Tavana.” She had her own kind of command that Krax found almost irresistible, underscored by the beautiful orange loose clothing draped over her body and even covering her hair.</p><p>“Ever since the two of them took passage on an Imperial ship and failed to do so much as <em>write</em>,” she sneered, “our standing with our family patron has been tenuous. Captain Kagga contacts us all too often about <em>your</em> son. <em>Yours</em>. She contacts us without regard for the time.” Looking at her son, she added coldly, “And she calls about you as well, but for different reasons.” To see someone so big and broad as Doh’Val become<em> deferential</em> to his mother! Krax could kiss her!</p><p>Aafia dismissed her with an eyeroll. “I have told you before, Vudic has done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”</p><p>Her voice heightened. “Captain Kagga asks with the authority of the Imperial Vanguard!” Her fist pounded the table and the tableware hopped around. “She will not tell us why, only that it is related to the incident on her ship!” Her eyes sharply flicked over to Vudic. “I know he writes to you constantly while my own son will not breathe a word. I deserve to know the whole truth of what happened.”</p><p>As Aafia took a breath to spit fire at her opponent, a touch on her shoulder from her husband suddenly deflated her. Before that moment, Talok hadn’t moved since they sat down. The two spoke in low tones to each other which Krax heard something of before their hostess pounded the table again. “I can hear the translator’s delay! You will speak our common tongue and nothing else so long as you are in my house!”</p><p>Talok’s difference with his son stood in stark relief. While Vudic couldn’t help his wandering eyes or the occasional sigh, his father was like stone. Even his face seemed like the sandstone mountains Krax saw in pictures of their homeworld, a contrast to his gray robes.</p><p>At last, he spoke, slowly. “During the absence of Vudic, unknown people contacted She Who Is My Wife.” His voice was like his son’s but lacked clarity or youth, sounding grainy. “We do not know who they are. These people make contact to ask questions about your son. They ask questions in writing so we do not see their faces.” And then, his voice shifted. Krax felt a wave of fear through his ribs. “Your words are based on the belief that these questions can only be about someone who lacks honor or whose family lacks honor. Logic states—”</p><p>“Talok, please do not do this.” Carl, stout and brown, stood from his chair, the reminder that he even existed. Doh’Val was both so much like him and nothing like him in a way Krax couldn’t place. He kept his dignity, but he was on the verge of pleading. “I understand what you are saying and you have made your point.”</p><p>A flicker of the old Vulcan’s dark eyes to acknowledge that anyone had spoken.“Have I?” asked Talok, and Krax heard the way Minjaral’s heart skipped from the stress of this tense moment.</p><p>Carl stood his ground. “Yes. You have.” A warning or a threat or something. No wonder he was married to Tavana. He earned her.</p><p>A standoff. It occurred to Krax that Talok was not broad like Doh’Val or Carl, but he had an unmistakable presence. Krax had also noticed that both Carl and Talok had the hands of laborers, not warriors. Never, ever push a laborer.</p><p>He could hear Minjaral’s heart jump again at the quiet in Carl’s voice. “This is nothing more than misunderstanding. We are all civilized people, and we can find a civilized solution.”</p><p>A nod. At last, some release of tension.</p><p>“Then a question remains,” said Talok. “What is the purpose of these communications?”</p><p>At that moment, all eyes fell on Doh’Val and Vudic.</p><p>Years later, Krax, as a much different person, would reflect on this moment and decide that this was probably went everything started to go terribly wrong for the four of them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lethally Polite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Seu Minjaral never thought that his personal etiquette would become hazardous to his health.</p><p>It started with the first dinner. The names didn’t translate but he remembered capsaicin and cinnamon and nigella as names for the potent ingredients in the food which numbed his tongue and made his good eye water constantly. His personal etiquette, and life experience, made the choice clear—he never turned down food, and certainly not food prepared by welcoming, kind hosts. He’d eaten rotten rations and never complained. He had no reason to complain now. </p><p>Krax had no such reservations. In a way, Minjaral envied the Ferengi’s brashness. Maybe it was slight but obvious infatuation with their hosts’ mothers that made his requests for changes seem charming. Minjaral could not bring himself to do the same, the second night suffering through a meal which made his intestines feel like they tying themselves into knots. He forced a smile and a compliment, even as his hosts asked if there was anything, anything at all, they could do for him. </p><p>The real trouble came the next day when his body would tolerate no more and insisted—no, demanded—every scrap of food be ejected from his body, regardless of route. He never thought anything could burn worse leaving than it had going in. </p><p>The cold tension between the families didn’t help. Vudic’s parents stayed at the Federation consulate but insisted on having their evening meal, every night, at the Nakarmi house. The somatic memories of his past didn’t visit his head but made their home in his gut and his knees and the great scar on his face and the parts of his body that were normally numb from nerve damage. Oh, he would love to sit for dinner, but long-haul starship travel can still have some latent effects on the body and he must rest for the evening. He was not lying. He was helping his hosts save face lest they find out they’d been slowly poisoning him. And at this point, well, it just seemed rude to speak up. </p><p>He had gone without many times before, whenever he needed, and he could ignore the feeling of his blood growing sluggish from lack of nutrition. But something about the aromatic food enticed him back the next day and he ate heartily, delighting his hosts. And then, inevitably, his body rejected it all again in explosive fashion. </p><p>This second time that made him rethink his approach. It was worse now, so bad that he could not settle into his bed that night and eventually nodded off while lying on the wooden floor next to the toilet and a bucket that used to be a fine vase, the large bathing basin nearby filled with water which had gone from steaming hot to tepid. </p><p>A knock at his guestroom door. Someone called out. Another knock. He blinked awake. </p><p>“Yes?” he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes?” </p><p>Strange, he couldn’t place the voice which frantically called to him again. </p><p>“Yes? I’m here.” Only now did he realize he was naked. He crawled on his knees to where last night’s clothes lay and somehow got them on his body. That was enough work for one day. He found the large window on the guestroom where he’d forgotten to close the shades, and to his great luck there was a perfect sunbeam for him to lie in until he stopped aching. </p><p>Hearing the door open triggered the realization that his false eye had popped out at some point during the night—he had taken it out on purpose, right? </p><p>“I will be there in a moment,” he mumbled, waving in some direction to give the intruder the signal to leave. </p><p>“Master Seu?” Bajoran spoken by a foreigner. “Master Seu?” </p><p>He felt through the floor how the footfalls approached him and he hoisted himself up to a sitting position, making a halfhearted attempt to slick back his short mop of black hair. A good choice to cut his hair before arriving here; it had stayed clean despite his sickness through the evening. </p><p>Madame Tavana was standing over him, already dressed for the day, the age line of her face made deep with concern. Remembering himself, Minjaral politely covered his empty eye-socket. “Good morning, Madame.” His head still throbbed too much for him to stand and greet her properly. </p><p>She knelt down to wrap her strong hands around his elbows and used just enough upward pull to coax him to his feet, led him to the bed, and used the same gentle pushing to lie down. On instinct, he rolled onto his side and pulled his knees close. His eyelids were heavy. Just a few more minutes….</p><p>A tapping at his cheek. He grunted his disapproval at being woken. </p><p>“Sit up.” Voice rough and streaked with brown, Madam Tavana. </p><p>He should be a good guest. As soon as he sat up, an enormous bowl of dark broth was placed in his lap. The smell reminded him of boiled cartilage and was faintly sweet. A small metal cup was placed in his hand containing a small amount of the stuff. “You need to drink this.” A little translator box was somewhere nearby. Good. </p><p>Whatever the look on his face had been, it prompted her to say, “It is a bone broth with supplements added. Dr. Jalal and her husband helped prepare it. It is neutral and without any spices.” </p><p>He had no choice and gingerly brought the little cup to his lips, sipping just enough to wet his tongue. “Prophets,” he gasped softly and downed the whole cup as the warm liquid coated and soothed his throat. It was the best thing he had tasted since arriving here. </p><p>Only after third or fourth cupful did he realized that Madame Tavana was still seated on the bed, watching him. He couldn’t imagine how ill-mannered he must look. “I must apologize for myself,” he offered with deference. “I have never suffered such an attack of starship-related travel sickness before.” </p><p>He could feel her watching him. “That is expected when one eats food that does not agree with one’s body.” </p><p>In defiance, he met her dark eyes. He had risked his very health to prevent causing her offense. She should understand what he was doing. </p><p>A smile played along her lips. Her rough voice’s edges softened the same way that age had softened the edges of her face. “The first time Doh’Val’s father gave me food from his Homeworld, I could not admit to him that I had become bedridden. I told him I had too much work to see him until I was well again.” She led the hand holding the cup back toward the big bowl of broth. </p><p>Oh no, his companions. She knew his thoughts. “I told them you were still adjusting to the rhythm of our planet and should not be disturbed.” Her smile broadened because, in a way, it was the truth. </p><p>For the first time since arriving on this planet, he felt safe; the familiarity of home was its own safety even while knowing its ugliness. Minjaral brought the filled cup to his lips and sipped quietly, slowly, to pace himself and exercise some restraint. Now having Madame Tavana sitting on his bed and watching him became a comfort. </p><p>A question came across her face before she spoke it. “I do not mean offense,” she began, “but I would like to ask about your parents and those of Mr. Krax. You speak of friends and siblings, but never the rest of your family.” </p><p>It always hurt just a little, like a splinter on the finger, when someone noticed the way he spoke about his life and the complicated nature of his family. “Madame Tavana, I...I think. I need to know. How much do you know about my planet’s history?” </p><p>She rubbed one side of her ridges in thought. “Dr. Jalal talked about her son’s letters to her—“</p><p>“I, Forgive me, Madame, I do not understand. You and Dr. Jalal talked?”</p><p>She furrowed her brow. “Yes, we talked.” Catching his meaning, she sneered, “Fighting with her does not mean I dislike her. We fight because we understand each other. We understand each other more than any other people either of is have ever met. It is like fighting with a sister.” At his gesture to continue, she obliged. “I know...that your planet is still coping with the devastation that your conquerors left before you drove them off. And it was right to drive them off because they were a dishonorable people. Your people were kind, and they repaid your kindness with enslavement.” </p><p>“Yes. That is true.” </p><p>“This is why I want to know your parents.” She re-positioned herself to better face him. “How did they raise you?” </p><p>Whatever she was asking, he couldn’t process the thought. Was the translator not working. “Forgive me, I do not understand.”</p><p>She seemed embarrassed at her own lack of clarity. “How shall I say this...Your parents. It must have caused such a scandal for them to be together.” </p><p>Incredible. She could only imagine the circumstances under which her and Dr. Jalal’s sons had been born: wanted. An expression of love. Minjaral set down his cup. He saw his reflection darkly in the broth. He could almost see the droop of his eye-less socket and the outline of his facial scar. “...Madame Tavana.” His words were like grains of sand in his mouth. “I do not believe you understand my planet’s history.” Where to start? He didn’t want to say the whole ugly truth. “I was the result of...an atrocity. Against my mother. I do not know my father. I have never known my father.” To speak it was offensive to himself and everyone else. And it hurt. It still hurt and it was hurting again to see how foreign this was to her. </p><p>But she understood, reeling and covering her eyes as her own show of deference. “Mr. Seu, please forgive my line of questions. I was not aware.” A dissatisfied sigh. “However, I must know about Mr. Krax. I cannot risk losing our patron’s favor.” </p><p>Thank the Prophets, something else to discuss. “My understanding is that Krax’s father died and his mother is still on Homeworld. He provides for her but cannot return. I do not know more details.” </p><p>She was skeptical. “And you believe he is as remarkable as he claims? That he is this...whatever it is, this famous mysterious composer.” </p><p>“I have no doubt.” Recalling a memory in their travels when he overheard Krax singing while he bathed, Minjaral smiled. “A clear, beautiful voice too.” </p><p>Madame Tavana fell deep into thought, fingertips massaging her forehead ridges. “Do you trust him?” </p><p>“As much as I trust your son.” She may not have liked an honest answer. At she she was satisfied by what he said.  </p><p>There was nothing more to discuss, but he knew she would stay. Just like when Nima watched over him during any illness and how he learned to watch over other children. </p><p>To his shock, Minjaral drank to all but the final drops even as his belly complained with soft pangs from stretching to accommodate. He couldn’t help grunting indignantly when he slid down onto the bed, realizing it was only during his times off-planet that he could ever remember being this full. </p><p>Tavana moved to the other side of the bed. He turned his head so he could see her. “Thank you, but I am sure you are busy. You do not need to stay.” </p><p>Her voice was smooth with veins of gold. “I know. I know.” She reached out her hand, hesitating, expecting him to flinch away, and then rested it on his forehead to push away his hair and drag her fingers along the Cardassian indent and the upper edges of his facial scar. Just like Nima. </p><p>Something indescribable wormed into his heart. An epiphany and an absence. </p><p>If Tavana lived long enough, she would do this for Doh’Val when he was an old man. </p><p>“I cannot imagine your hardships,” she murmured. “The despair of your people.” </p><p>He couldn’t look at her as he spoke. “Our history is the will of The Prophets.” He frowned. The words felt so hollow. “Or so I have been told. It is something I told myself for years. I do not know what to believe these days.” </p><p>Though he couldn’t see, he could hear the smile in her voice. “Doh’Val tells me that these Prophets are like the gods of your planet. Here, we are fond of telling off-worlders that we killed our gods.” </p><p>He scoffed. “I suppose I should expect as much from Klingons.” Immediately, he regretted his words. “I, Madame, I mean no offense—”</p><p>Her laughter was sweeter than he’d expected. “You are right.” He knew by touch alone she was pushing aside more strands of his hair the way he’d seen mothers do for their small children and the way he remembered Nima doing for him. “But, I have thought deeply on this story. I think….” Her fingers played with the strands. “I think that many generations ago, before we learned how to farm, there were people who called themselves gods and asked us to worship them. We did, for a time. We prayed to them. Then, one day, we realized that we gained nothing from this worship. We gave these people fine things and our adoration, and they did not answer our prayers. In this way, we killed them, and we chose to worship each other instead.” </p><p>The words slid out of his mouth as the weight of his meal bore down on his body to remind him that he was still very tired. “I lived on a farm, many years ago, not quite a farm, around farms, like this farm, when I was young, with forests too….” </p><p>“Tell me more.”</p><p>Minjaral said something but the words never quite formed because within moments, he had drifted off to sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Price Of Getting What One Wants</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>Another</em> set? We have only three days to prepare!”</p><p>“Shall I tell Master Morath that you deny his request?” asked the servant, indifferent to his plight. This one seemed to personally disdain Doh’Val.</p><p>They stood under the broad, curved awning which surrounded his family’s house. It was late morning; Doh’Val had been working since dawn. He was weary to his core. “No,” he groaned. “I am—” he took a deep breath, “—pleased to oblige Master Morath.” How ironic that such pleasant weather occurred during a time when he couldn’t possibly enjoy it.</p><p>“Good Day, Doh’Val, Son of Carl.”</p><p>“Good Day, Honorable Servant of House Bar.”</p><p>Before leaving, the servant added with a sneer, “Ensure that you and your associates are properly dressed.”</p><p>He looked down, realizing he wore nothing more than an undershirt and a split breech-cloth; he’d even forgotten to don shoes.</p><p>He rehearsed his words as he quickly dressed, looking for the perfect phrase that the translator in the room would construe in the most positive light. They should think of this as a good omen, after all. They would be handsomely rewarded. Yes. This would be good for all of them. This could become something greater. He hoped….</p><p>Around the corner, the library room buzzed with the chatter of the other three and the clatter of their instruments. Outside the range of the translator, he could only understand Vudic who, out of courtesy to his parents, spoke their shared language. “—Krax, you are mistaken, the song is in celebration of a child’s birth, a child named Aisha.”</p><p>Krax’s clothes and affect reminded Doh’Val of the young feral peacocks that dotted the farms he had visited on Earth as he strutted around since he seemed unable to sit down or stay in one place. The translator finally kicked in. “Oh please! What do you know about being a parent?” Minjaral, still and serene in his sunbeam warming his scaly skin as he watched the argument with bemusement, was like the geckos that his cousins liked to feed around their home.</p><p>Vudic’s blue eyes narrowed slightly and Doh’Val did his best to ignore the feathery dark hair on his terracotta chest which the deep V of his undershirt exposed. “I have the cultural context that you lack.”</p><p>The three of them, and his human father, stout and round and balding in just the right way that he had the same hairline as every Klingon, holding a big plate of fruit and pickles that Doh’Val already knew he’d chopped up and arranged for them, looking slightly put-upon as Krax asked, “Mr. Nakarmi, what do you think?”</p><p>His father’s whole forehead wrinkled into many lines. “I am not very good with interpreting poetry. But, when I hear the words, it says what I felt when Doh’Val was born. He was—ah, he is here!”</p><p>Krax’s grin was warning enough but his words said everything. “Baby boy!” Mocking, yes, but strangely affectionate, putting a half-smile on Minjaral’s scarred face as the light shined off his black-white false eye. “Minjal, you owe me three slips! I told you he was the youngest of us!”</p><p>His father blushed slightly. “I was telling them about your brothers.” He knew his father had done everything he could not to embarrass him, but it seemed inevitable with these three. Perhaps he should just embrace and accept it after a month and a half of working so closely together. Vudic, mercifully, took the plate and thanked him.</p><p>They had a chance to step out into the hall. The crease was still on his father’s brow. “Who was at the door?” he asked in hushed tones.</p><p>“Morath’s servant.” He hated how hot his ridges felt. “It was about our performance at the end of the month.” He could feel his father’s concern. “I have it under control.”</p><p>“Alright.” His father was an assiduous parent, a quality that helped him win his mother’s heart, and he sometimes used this gift to assuage his anxious nerves. “I trust your judgment.”</p><p>“Vav, I have it under control.” Maybe if it said it enough, he would believe it too.</p><p>“Doh’Val.” His father switched to Nepal Bhasa. “I am already proud of you. I am proud of you everyday.” He still felt like a child whenever his father drew him close to be forehead-to-forehead even though his father now had to stand on his toes.</p><p>“Thank you.” A year away, and Nepal Bhasa didn’t feel the same on his tongue as it did when he left.</p><p>“I will be back.” He straightened and gently squeezed Doh’Val’s shoulders. “And tonight I am teaching you how to make Dr. Jalal’s pickled vegetables.”</p><p>He reeled. “Why?”</p><p>Even when his father only cocked one brow, half of his forehead wrinkled. “For Vudic, why else?”</p><p>Doh’Val suddenly felt a headache coming on. “Why—never mind, alright, teach me tonight.”</p><p>His father parted with the words, “You have good friends, and I am glad that you have Vudic to look after you.”</p><p>When he returned to the room, he discovered the original topic of conversation. Krax was still talking, “—consider preparing a few other pieces. For insurance.”</p><p>“We have done quite a bit of work already.” Minjaral got his words out just in time before a yawn. His tunic had the right side mostly cut away, either by fashion or by wear, exposing little scars around his neck ridges, larger ones on his forearm, and chafed, knotty scars around his wrists. He looked tired. “I think we have enough.”</p><p>“Oh, you know the types who pay for these things,” answered Krax, waving away the comment. “They ask for something more and then become so huffy when you are empty-handed, even threatening not to pay for your services rendered in the first place.” Doh’Val only half-listened. Minjaral’s sinewy calves and chafed ankles had their own pattern of scarring, exposed by his cut-off trousers. They didn’t look like fighting scars.</p><p>“That is illogical.” Vudic idly plucked at the neck of his ka’athyra. Doh’Val envied how relaxed he looked. “To change the terms of our agreement after-the-fact would be dishonest.”</p><p>“Vudic, old kettle of mine, the universe has never been a logical place.” Krax never seemed comfortable in any part of a room. “But trust me. We should prepare ourselves.”</p><p>Minjaral couldn’t see him staring, but somehow, he still knew. “Doh’Val?” He turned his good side toward him. “What do you say?”</p><p>The perfect set-up. “Yes! Yes! I wholly agree!” announced Doh’Val, striding to the computer bank. “We can prepare right away.”</p><p>“Only arrangements.” Krax winked slyly. “No need to offer our best to satisfy a fussy client.”</p><p>Minjaral chuckled. “Why even arrangements? We keep asking Doh’Val to write them for us. Instead, let us choose from our own collections of existing works by other artists.”</p><p>It would have to do. Doh’Val was thankful that they agreed to it at all. “Well! Where shall we begin?” The on-screen search appeared. The four of them had pooled their libraries to create such a massive treasure-trove of music that they may spend three days simply looking for the perfect inspiration.</p><p>Krax walked over, gesturing for permission to take over. “Simple pieces. We have only three days. Anything we can perform with minimal rehearsal.”</p><p>“That may prove challenging,” said Vudic. “Our backgrounds are quite different as are the instruments in which we specialize. I propose that we spend our remaining time in solitude and select works from our own collections. We will each prepare two pieces by other composers in addition to what we have already written.”</p><p>Minjaral’s eyes narrowed as only they could with his facial scar, always making him look like he was cocking one eyebrow. “What if we performed together, all four of us?”</p><p>The suggestion gave them pause. Even Krax stopped his pacing. They had fallen into the natural duet groups, but the four of them? Would it work?</p><p>“What if we only sang? No instruments.”</p><p>This was a time for Doh’Val to intervene. “A voice without an instrument is not considered art.” He felt himself stumbling through his words, certain that they would disregard any advice offered. “We may certainly use Vudic’s ka’athyra or Minjaral’s flute.”</p><p>“Of course it is art!” chirped Krax confidently. “Minjal, marvelous idea! It is simple, easy to arrange, and—” He flashed a grin to the room, “we all have voices as fine as liquid latinum.”</p><p>Vudic nodded, setting down his instrument. “It would be bold and unusual in your culture, Doh’Val. That is the objective of our endeavor, is it not?”</p><p>“Well, yes--”</p><p>Krax jumped in. “Then it is agreed!” He hopped over to the computer console, all but hip-checking Doh’Val out of the way, and changing the language settings. “A piece that we do not need to write, uses four vocal parts, no instruments, easy to translate if needed, and can be learned in three days.” His optimism was unnerving. “No trouble at all! Now, let’s see….”</p><p>Doh’Val fell into a nearby chair, massaging his ridges and silently reciting whatever mantras he could remember his father teaching him to keep from losing his temper. Patience, patience. Krax said something like, “A Starfleet officer traded me some songs for covering his tab, more Terran music, feh….” The less he paid attention, the better.</p><p>A recording started up. Four voices. He didn’t need the translator.</p><p>“<em>In the evening when I sit alone a-dreaming</em></p><p>
  <em>Of days gone by, love, to me so dear….”</em>
</p><p>Krax hushed all of them into silence with hissing shhs, then closed his eyes in deep concentration, lips silently moving and fingers playing on an invisible piano. The recording itself, all four voices sounding naked without any instruments, had the little warbles and static and pops that accumulate in very old recordings as they get passed around over the decades. This one must have been over 400 years old.</p><p>“<em>...If we must meet sometime in after years, my darling,</em></p><p>
  <em>I trust that I will find your love still mine...”</em>
</p><p>Doh’Val kept his eyes on Krax because he didn’t want to think about where they might wander.</p><p>Only when the song ended could he relax. And then Vudic said, “This is an intriguing musical form, but I strongly recommend a different piece.”</p><p>“No, no!” retorted Krax brightly with a smile that was now very irritating. “This is the one. It is everything we need, and, better yet, it is a love song, and love songs never fail to please a client.”</p><p>“Yes, and that is the root of my objection.” Vudic now stood as well. “As a member of the Vulcan Society of Artists, I am bound to uphold the tenets of Vulcan culture. Love songs are private and meant to share only between the writer and the intended recipient. From audio quality alone, I am confident in my assessment that both the writer and recipient are dead. Therefore, it is inappropriate to perform this song.”</p><p>“You’re only objecting because it is about an emotion!” snapped Krax.</p><p>“Yes, you are correct. This violates Vulcan aesthetics.”</p><p>“Then we don’t translate it! No one will know.”</p><p>“Krax, that is not my concern. I will know that I am performing a composition which is objectionable to the Society.”</p><p>Minjaral moved from his sunbeam and though like a willow tree, he exuded an authority and strength which compelled Doh’Val to obey him, whatever he was to say. “Vudic.” His paternal tone always held a subsumed intensity. “You said yourself that your culture is stagnating.” He rested a hand on Vudic’s shoulder, causing the other to visible stiffen as if he were bristling at the invasion of his personal space. “If you are truly dedicated to what brought me many, many light years from my home, then I recommend you strongly consider this and other pieces <em>because</em> they violate Vulcan aesthetics.”</p><p>He knew that stony expression that came over Vudic’s face, and why he did not answer right away. “I understand your position,” he said at last.</p><p>Though he withdrew his hand, Minjaral’s good eye still held that authoritative glint. “Then we shall let Krax choose from his collection because he has what you have said that you want, and he is experienced at handling a request made after-the-fact.”</p><p>Rather than answer, Vudic nodded for he and Doh’Val to step out, away from the translator. That headache he felt earlier had started, and it stung. In the hallway, he focused on his friend’s nose, caught between the plunge of his undershirt and his magnetic eyes. “Doh’Val, my position on this matter is clear. You must help me persuade them.”</p><p>“Vudic, there is nothing to be done, I cannot.” “You are our host and we are at your disposal. You have the authority to determine our course of action.” “Vudic, no, there is nothing I can do.” “Doh’Val, I understand that you are honor-bound to be hospitable, but compromises must be made—”</p><p>“What would you have me do, Vudic!” He didn’t realized how loud he was until the ringing silence came after his words. Not even the other two were speaking. He tried to swallow his rage. “They came a very, very long way to help me, without pay, as a favor. To me! To my family!”</p><p>He couldn’t look at the coldness in those blue eyes. “I did as well.”</p><p>“Yes! I—Yes, I—Vudic, my patron did just what Krax predicted. We had an agreement, and this morning, he sends a servant to tell me he wants <em>more</em>. More!” He turned away to compose himself, biting his fist in his anger. “I—Vudic, I want to tear off my own skin!” He didn’t realize everything that he’d been tamping down since coming home, and now it was spilling out.</p><p>“Vudic, I, I wake up before first light and I work! I do not sleep! I am home for over a month and still! None of my clothes fit the way they should! Do you know what I found this morning in my beard? A gray hair! I am strong and virile and in my prime, and I spent part of my morning pulling a gray hair of out my beard. I found two more in my hair the other day! I, I am pulling gray hairs and wearing clothes that do not fit and waking up at before first light and, in Kahless’ name, if I have to do this for much longer, I think I may cut out someone’s heart and eat it!”</p><p>It felt good to say all those things. A weight seemed to leave his chest. His fist was shaking slightly. He felt out of breath.</p><p>Vudic did not shrink or pull away. Instead, he extended his hand. “I did not appreciate your circumstances. I did not know.”</p><p>If only he could go back to bed. “I—Vudic, they are right. And you are right. I, I asked the three of you come to here so that we could do something none of us have ever done. I….” His head felt like he’d be hit square with the hilt of a knife. “I do not know what to do other than let you argue until you reach a resolution.”</p><p>His hand went to lightly rest on Doh’Val’s shoulder, and too late did Doh’Val realized he was leaning closer to his friend. “I understand.” His silvery voice spoke gently. “I will state my position, and we will come to an agreement through logic and debate.”</p><p>“Thank you.” In that moment, he wanted deeply to press his ridges against Vudic’s forehead for no other reason other than he needed that touch. Instead, he drew away to thwart temptation. “Oh, and why does my father want to teach me how to make your mother’s picked vegetables?”</p><p>Vudic tilted his head in curiosity. “This is highly irregular. My mother rarely shares that recipe.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Performance Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Performance Day.</p><p>Dawn. Doh’Val sat on a little bench behind the house, facing the large fallow fields, watching the small cabin at the edge of the forest where his parents’ apprentices lived while they did their research. Not even the apprentices were awake yet.</p><p>He gave up on sleeping hours ago. He wore his best outfit, combining Klingon clothes with the traditional colors and patterns of Newar culture, black with large, bright red borders as was traditional for people who worked the land. It almost fit right. It would have to do.</p><p>He needed to wake the others. For now, he wanted to enjoy the sunrise. This would work. It had do. He didn’t have a choice.</p><p>Sleeping in his own bed again didn’t feel the way he had expected. He kept waking up every few hours and finding his arm groping around for something that was missing.</p><p>Something touched him out there in the great cosmos. Many nights, when he and Vudic would fall asleep pressed together on a sleeping mat or tiny cot or when they were so exhausted and cold they fell asleep sitting up, Something-That-Was-Not-Him touched his mind. It was warm and viscous and gentle. He always felt more rested when it visited. More at ease.</p><p>Whatever it was, he wished it would visit him now.</p><p>The gold and red forest was so beautiful in the blue of dawn. This was good land. The same land his mother’s family had learned to work for generations. He still felt that this was home.</p><p>But he also wondered if some part of him had been left out among the stars.</p><p>+++</p><p>Early morning meant Vudic’s waking ritual. Meditation, breathing, kalisthenics, scales and exercises, and then his morning ablutions. Greet the day with peace in one’s heart. Strive for compassion and kindness.</p><p>His parents had brought him the formalwear he wore for professional concerts when his title was meaningful. A fitted outfit, black with a deep red undershirt and accompanying soft red shoes. The symbols of Surak was over the right breast and “Master Artist” in ancient script embroidered down the left side. Aesthetics and membership dictated strict dress code for member of the Society, and he had asserted his heritage over the years with one addition: lapis lazuli prayer beads around his neck, just like the ones his father wore around the wrist whenever his mother was off-world.</p><p>As he shaved, a stray thread of emotion ran through his mind. Had he done all this for the right reasons? Yes. They were embarking on an endeavor unlike anything else he could imagine. Doh’Val would need reassurance. His courage would curdle from doubt. Vudic already knew what to say.</p><p>+++</p><p>Krax groaned at the knock on his chamber door. “Raktajino will be served shortly,” came the voice of his host. He pulled the plugs from his ears, the only safe way to dampen the noises in the house. Time to dazzle them.</p><p>He stripped off his sleepwear, shivering as he reached for the case containing his lobe enhancers. Should he practice? Doubtful. They’ll rehearse when they get there. Getting worked up over all this wasn’t worth the trouble.</p><p>He slipped on the bodysuit which hid any inkling of femininity. He needed a new one; this was getting worn and itchy. Was it worth the risk to try getting a new one here? Sometimes he wished that he didn’t have to wear it. He didn’t hate his body. He just….he didn’t know what to think. The bodysuit and everything else. It made things easier.</p><p>Pulling out his favorite suit, he couldn’t help smiling. It was gorgeous; blue jacket to match the natural color of his nails with a bright vest in swirling greens, trousers to match the jacket, and purple shoes that clicked with each step. The base shirt was a soft white. Just perfect. Doh’Val had shown him picture of something called a “peacock” and he knew that he wanted to be like that creature. Maybe one of the mothers would notice him. Both excited him, and he always had a fondness for older women. Actually, all women. They were his weakness.</p><p>There was nothing to worry about. Although. The Vulcan needed to keep their host in check if they were going to do this right. And complain less.</p><p>+++</p><p>Minjaral woke to the knock across the hallway. “Raktajino,” is all he heard. Morning meal.</p><p>He slipped out of the cloth restraint on his right wrist so he could untie the one on his left before and then the ones at his feet. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t sleep without them, even as they cut into his skin. His wounds wept. He needed to wrap them before anyone noticed.</p><p>Should he stay in this place, this place which pushed him toward habits he thought that he had put aside years ago?</p><p>In the mirror, he pulled off his sleeping eye-patch and combed out his black hair which fell to just past his jawline. Just like an officer. A habit. He wanted to be respectable.</p><p>Of them all, he was the only one whom Doh’Val had criticized for his presentation. A trade-off, he supposed: he dictated their musical trajectory but had to give up fashion autonomy. New clothes—custom made black, with silver patterning in imitation of Cardassian military uniform, cut to accentuate his ridges. But opening the simple jewelry box which held his false eyes, he realized that he could add something of himself to today. He picked out one he saved for special occasions: purple with a bronze-colored design of his planet’s Resurrection Flower, the symbol of Bajor’s future.</p><p>May the Prophets help him survive this day.</p><p>+++</p><p>No time for attending to the others. From the moment that Doh’Val had arrived at the modest concert hall, he alternated between bickering with the crew over minutiae and asking their forgiveness for his foul temper. He learned early on to stay in their good graces, but he was trying their patience.</p><p>“Enough!” snapped the crew leader, brandishing a tablet at Doh’Val’s head. They stood behind the backdrop. “Do not expect us to hold your worries for you!”</p><p>Doh’Val stood his ground. “You understand how important this performance is--”</p><p>“Every performance is important! Go to the round with your friends and stop pestering my people!”</p><p>Doh’Val wouldn’t budge.</p><p>“Do it or I will <em>personally</em> see to it that you look like a fool for Morath, Son of Mohm.”</p><p>Knowing the crew leader, he obliged. Those threats were never empty.</p><p>Warm yellowish light bathed the expansive stage. As expected, the others didn’t see the gravity of the situation. Or perhaps they did but didn’t care. Krax sat at his keyboard, tinkering with melodies or scraps of other songs while conversing with Minjaral in Bajoran. They seemed at ease, Minjaral leaning on the grand instrument when he wasn’t sharing the bench to let Krax teach him the instrument. At least they had dressed well and looked like respected artists. The need for translator boxes and interpreters was becoming cumbersome; he should learn Bajoran.</p><p>Vudic brought him out of his thoughts. “Doh’Val.” He looked stunning in his formal-wear. “You seem preoccupied.” The high collar of the red undershirt coming up to his jaw contrasted with the wide, square collar of his black tunic. Everything was exquisitely tailored to fit him; he even seemed taller. “Perhaps you should speak on what is preoccupying you.”</p><p>Doh’Val felt sweat under his collar. “No, no.” He switched his focus back to the other two. “I am...preparing myself.”</p><p>“We are well-prepared. Mr. Seu and Mr. Krax have shown their prowess and their good faith. A lack of confidence may be taken as a slight against them.”</p><p>“Vudic, please. I know.”</p><p>“I am simply reminding you of our circumstances.” The faint smell of cedar fell from his friend’s hair. Doh’Val didn’t like it as much as his natural— “Our talent and care in preparation are self-evident. Your patron will logically accept that we have done all that was asked.”</p><p>He always spoke like their outcome was preordained. Doh’Val hoped that he was right.</p><p>+++</p><p>The concert hall hummed. Five minutes until performance time, and for the first time since coming here, Krax was distracted and anxious. He stood behind the backdrop, away from the audience’s sight. Their host had promised a very small audience, ten at the most. This was one hundred, maybe more. What if no one was impressed? What if he made a mistake? What if he had come all this way for nothing?</p><p>“Krax, are you listening?” asked Doh’Val sharply.</p><p>“Yes, yes,” he snapped, now annoyed that he somehow lost the ability to lie convincingly in the past five minutes.</p><p>“Please, do not talk to Morath. There are no translator boxes. He will not understand you.”</p><p>“Fine, fine.” He grumbled under his breath, but then an urgent thought came to him. “Wait! Do not tell him I am ‘different’ from other males on Ferenginar.”</p><p>Doh’Val had the nerve to growl at him. “You are asking him to let him believe you are rapacious and cowardly and dishonorable?”</p><p>“Yes.” Krax had learned that if he stood up on his toes and got in Doh’Val’s face, he could usually get his way. “Let him have his false beliefs. I will convince him through my music.”</p><p>He could see the restrained anger behind his face. “Will you at least tell me why?”</p><p>“Because it is what I want and it is what I asked.”</p><p>Another deep, seething sigh. “Very well. Whatever you want.” He caught Doh’Val muttering under his breath, “I can’t believe I agreed to any of this….”</p><p>+++</p><p>Minjaral felt disconnected and uncomfortably helpless. Without a common tongue or in-ear translator, he kept close to to the Ferengi who graciously whispered interpretations for him.</p><p>Vudic finished. He joined them in the dark back area outside the view of the audience.</p><p>Minjaral’s turn.</p><p>The lights above his head were too bright as he walked into the round. He was not expected to interact with his audience until after the performance. So long as the patron did not suddenly insist on extra performances without warning, he would not lose his composure.</p><p>Soft gasps and whispers accompanied him as per usual. He carried two different instruments, a simple flute and a compound-flute with many chambers and keys. He had no interest in his surroundings, his audience, or the unnecessary duties which had been placed upon him. He just wanted it to be over.</p><p>He would play for himself and no one else.</p><p>+++</p><p>“<em>I humbly present to you, the person known as Musician 52366, Krax, son of Rhoon.”</em></p><p>Time to shine. He squared up and held his head high. But the moment Krax stepped into view, laughter from all corners.</p><p>“This is a very funny thing to do, Doh’Val!” The old patron, Morath, sat dead center of everyone in a very comfortable chair, obviously set there for his use only. A woman, presumably his wife, sat on his right. Even in the dim lights over the audience, their clothes looked expensive. “Bringing out a Ferengi! Right droll of you!”</p><p>The translator in his ear didn’t have the range for him to bite back with his own retort, but he could still use his eyes to demand that Doh’Val, who stood at the edge of the stage, make them take him seriously.</p><p>The patron chortled further. “Clever too! Now then, where is this Krax?”</p><p>“Here.” Oh, he heard the reluctance in Doh’Val’s voice. “This is the mysterious composer who has traveled here to have an audience with you.”</p><p>Grumbles and hisses from the audience. Morath sounded disappointed. “Doh’Val, what is this? You told me that you would bring someone of unparalleled talent? What makes this—” A condescending wrist-flick “—this person that someone?”</p><p>Oh, that was enough. The lure of money was far too great for him to walk, but he would do one better—embarrass them. And one good thing about the limited range of his translator is that they wouldn’t know what he was saying. He said with his best smile, “You wouldn’t know talent, you bloated, fatuous imbecile if it came up and strangled you in your bathtub.”</p><p>Derisive laughter from the audience, no doubt at how his native language sounded to them.</p><p>He strode toward his keyboard, still smiling, still spitting insults and curses as they kept laughing, not a clue at all what he was saying, and from Doh’Val a sharp inhale and pounding pulse and all the other signs of him doing everything in his power to not explode from anger. He didn’t know either, but he knew what Krax was doing.</p><p>He sat down at his keyboard and he knew, he could make them stop laughing. He made a big show of cracking his wrists and knuckles. Still the audience kept cackling. There was everything that he had prepared for the past month, but no, he wanted to embarrass them. And he knew just how—the song request which had brought him here. Klingons liked opera, huh. Oh. He’d give them opera.</p><p>
  <em>Hell's vengeance boils in my heart,<br/></em>
  <em>Death and despair<br/></em>
  <em>Death and despair blaze about me!</em>
</p><p>Within the first words, they fell silent.</p><p>How dare they laugh at all. They didn’t know that he knew how to sing with his whole body and make his voice fill an auditorium. And when he hit his high notes, he heard the glass sing with him.</p><p>
  <em>Disowned be you forever<br/></em>
  <em>Abandoned be you forever...</em>
</p><p>Krax watched Morath the entire time, the old patron slack-jawed. <em>Cal</em><em>l me p’taq like you think I don’t know what that is.</em></p><p>He slammed the keys as he finished the song and it was only his infatuation with the fancy boys’ mothers that stopped him from spitting in disdain at the patron.</p><p>Reluctant applause from everyone except Morath. “Marvelous, marvelous!” he cried, hopping from his seat. “Another!”</p><p>“Yes, yes, of course, sir.” Even Doh’Val still sounded dazzled. “Krax, Son of Rhoon, did come for the purpose of having an audience with you.”</p><p>+++</p><p>Duet, duet, duet, duet….</p><p>It was almost over.</p><p>Despite how they had dazzled Morath and his audience, Doh’Val was having his doubts about their last-minute arrangements. What if they undid all of the goodwill they had built up? He wondered again about what he felt, out there in the stars. If he would be punished after doing everything he had been asked…would it be so bad to leave?</p><p>Each brought a tablet with their parts, not taking any chances with the rushed nature of these last three pieces.</p><p>No point in describing what would come next. He could explain it away as an experiment later. As long as Morath approved, all would be well. For now, at least.</p><p>Vudic hummed softly as their lead and the rest matched. They were ready. He saw the hesitation on Vudic’s face. He had no choice, though. This musical form required him to lead.</p><p>The signal. He began and the other three quickly fell into their assigned harmony.</p><p>“<em>In the evening when I sit alone and dreaming<br/></em><em>Of days gone by, love, to me so dear….”</em></p><p>----</p><p>The parents sat in the audience, just behind the patron. Everything had been going well, and then this.</p><p>Madame Aafia covered her mouth in shock. Her son had told her everything about the standards and constraints of the Vulcan Society of Artists. The subject matter—the risk was audacious. And the musical style—too alien for these people. The tragedy was that they sounded beautiful. She prayed, Allah protect him from the possible retribution.</p><p>“...<em>It is then I wonder where you are, my darling,<br/></em><em>And if your heart to me is still the same….”</em></p><p>Carl and Tavana met her eyes, their faces ashen and making the sindoor powder on their foreheads look even more orange. She looked to Talok to see his palm covering his own face.</p><p>What did their sons think they were doing?</p><p>----</p><p>They finished. Mercifully, they finished. Doh’Val couldn’t see the faces of the audience. His head felt light. This was the moment of truth.</p><p>“Brilliant, brilliant!” shouted Morath, clapping. Eventually, others joined with varying levels of enthusiasm. “Oh my! Doh’Val, Son of Carl, I am without breath! Tell me that you have more!”</p><p>“Yes, my lord,” he squawked. He thought he would faint. They had succeeded.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A Best Friend's Warning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morath, Son of Mohm, had a reputation for two things—giving money to sensible people, and spending money on frivolous things. His people converted the concert space quickly and skillfully into a sumptuous banquet, one for which Morath spared no expense. It was his habit to invite his beneficiaries for a feast following any performances or presentations. After their own family members, the House Nakarmi had dined with Morath and his wife more than anyone else in their lives.</p><p>Here, Morath took his hospitality to another level. Local delicacies including plant varieties that Doh’Val’s mother had developed, five kinds of bloodwine, sweets, and a hundred other items overflowing from shiny dishes and platters. It was like standing before the paintings of Kahless in his glory days when he feasted with legends. Morath’s hospitality extended to his off-world guests, providing wonderfully exotic dishes that they could all enjoy. Students of another beneficiary played traditional music for the guests while servants circulated constantly as they refreshed goblets or fixed drapery.</p><p>Doh’Val had split from the others. He sipped water to keep his head from spinning. The entire House Bar had been invited, plus House Nakarmi, Morath’s beneficiaries, a handful of bureaucrats, some soldiers, lucky parasites of House Bar, and from what he could tell at least three people who had convinced someone to let them in because it looked like a good time. He spotted his parents acting as interpreters for Vudic’s parents and his brothers helping to interpret for Vudic.</p><p>He had a moment of respite from the waves of people who came up, showering him with praise and insinuating that they would <em>love</em> to help him if he could just do them one little favor. These were the days for which he lived. These were the days that made him feel important. At any other feast, he would happily indulge the frivolities of feasting as he always did. This time, he didn’t feel the same impulse. He felt weary. He wondered again about that Something-That-Was-Not-Him….</p><p>“I see you’ve stayed out of trouble.” From behind him came a voice so warm and familiar. So many years later, and he still swooned just a little.</p><p>He turned on his heels, ready for a hearty embrace. “Kuvjak!” He was darker and more handsome each time Doh’Val saw him, a face that deserved to stay clean-shaved so everyone could bask in its beauty.</p><p>Kuvjak eagerly returned. “I came, just as I had promised.” Gods, the man still felt so good in his arms...</p><p>“Vekla is not with you?”</p><p>“She is at home with pneumonia and she refuses doctors or medicines.” He shook his head with a smile. “I married her for her obstinate nature, for good or for ill. She wants to will the sickness out of her body. I have convinced her to rest, so I consider one battle won.”</p><p>He frowned at the news. “Please tell her I hope she will recover.”</p><p>Kuvjak laughed, draping an arm around him. “She will. She just enjoys misery from time to time.” Then pulling close, he whispered, “I heard about what you did on one of our ships.”</p><p>Doh’Val gulped his water. “What part?”</p><p>A chuckle. “All of it, you sneaky bastard.”</p><p>He now regretted his actions with Kagga. He thought there had been an understanding between them. It was supposed to be for pleasure, for companionship, for satisfying the needs that mere mortals have. “I think I made myself clear,” he started, trying to find the thread of what he meant.</p><p>The arm on his shoulder squeezed him gently. “No, nothing like that. Kagga—she’s not spoiling your name or anything like that. She and I are colleagues now. In fact, she’s my new officer.”</p><p>The weight on Doh’Val’s heart disappeared. He couldn’t help himself, pulling the man back from another tight embrace. “You made Imperial Vanguard? Come to my house! We will celebrate!” Then another thought came to him. “I must know...do you two talk about me?”</p><p>Kuvjak gave him a light punch to the jaw. “Don’t flatter yourself. We talked about you when we met because everyone knows about her report.”</p><p>Some more visitors interrupted them briefly, causing them to venture off to a more private corner. “I must introduce you to the others.” He could hardly contain his excitement. “Have you met them already? Remarkable, aren’t they? I can hardly believe my good fortune.”</p><p>“Oh yes, the off-worlder, what was his name? Not the Ferengi—ah, Seu!” He grinned. “That is a man who will live a very long time. I can only imagine the battles he must have won to earn that scar on his face.” As a servant passed with a tray of freshly filled goblets. Kuvjak snatched one</p><p>Something felt wrong about Kuvjak’s praise. After sharing a roof together, Doh’Val gleaned from his guest’s manner and demeanor that there was nothing glorious or proud about the story those scars told. But it felt wrong to explain any of this at the moment. “I must tell you the story of how I found Krax. Forget everything you believe about his race. He is unlike them in so many ways.”</p><p>“Ah, the Ferengi! I like him very much, actually. A lot of fire in such a small man.” Nearby, Krax had done the nigh-impossible task of enthralling two finely-dressed women with a story while Minjaral listened along wearing his signature lopsided smile. Kuvjak laughed at the scene. “He is a delight to simply watch.”</p><p>“And Vudic has been a blessing.” A thousand other compliments filled his mouth, waiting to spill forth.</p><p>“Yes, yes.” Kuvjak’s enthusiasm deflated. “He is quite unusual.”</p><p>What had he said? “What do you mean?”</p><p>He could trust Kuvjak to never lie and to never waste time. For a moment, he hesitated. “You speak of him often. I think—” He looked off to the guests who laughed as they dined. “I think you should keep your distance from him.”</p><p>Leave it to Kuvjak to cut him to the bone with one sentence. “I, I think you—I think, I think that you—you know—I—you know you come here—you come and you—” He couldn’t finish. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t finish.</p><p>He pulled close, resting his hand on Doh’Val’s forearm. “Pursue whatever great masterpiece with him that you want. I know what your mother told me about your journey, and I understand why you trust him. But, remember. He is not yours. He can never be yours.”</p><p>Kuvjak always knew how to break his heart. “Why would you tell me this? Why here?”</p><p>“Because telling you here is the only way you will listen.” His arms were so strong and comforting as they wrapped around Doh’Val. “I apologize. But please. Protect your heart.”</p><p>Doh’Val pulled away, both angry and forlorn. They had to pause while someone walked by.“You don’t even know what I may decide. Perhaps I will pursue Minjaral instead! Or Krax!”</p><p>“I know you’ve already decided,” Kuvjak hissed. “Listen to me. I have met Vulcans from my time in service of the Empire. They are not like others. They do not love as we love—Doh’Val, <em>listen to me—</em>even the ones who take other species as their lovers. Perhaps his parents are an exception and are very in love. I do not know. But I know that I am still right. He will hurt you in ways you have never been hurt and you will gain <em>nothing</em>.”</p><p>Doh’Val swallowed his tears, looking away. A love song started up, prompting a few guests to start dancing from all the wine.</p><p>“Doh’Val, I beg of you,” he pleaded. “Protect yourself.”</p><p>“Why did we never take the oath?”</p><p>“Not this again. Honestly. You always do this when I tell you something you do not like!”</p><p>He huffed. “Then tell me again.”</p><p>Scoffing, he began the usual explanation. “We were young, I was about to join the service, you had taken your apprenticeship with Morath’s composer—Doh’Val, the fates were not on our side to be together. I—We were still youths.”</p><p>“There was more.”</p><p>Sighing, he relented. “Very well. You already know this, but I will tell you anyways. So many things come easily to you, so you think that everything should come easily and when something doesn’t, you assume that it is not worth your time. You are drawn to things that are bad for you. And you want the love of strangers more than the love of friends or what I could give you.”</p><p>More people had started dancing. He thought about teaching Vudic. Of course he was thinking about it. Just as Kuvjak had warned. “Yes. I am all of those things.”</p><p>“Doh’Val, please. I still love you. I will always love you. Do not be seduced by your own desires and your imagination.” He finished his goblet, placing on the nearest table. “I will come by tomorrow. We can visit and drink, the way we always have.”</p><p>As Kuvjak walked away, Doh’Val lingered in the corner. Damn dust in the concert hall had gotten in his eyes and stung them. No one could see him like this. After a few breaths, he went to the nearest servant to ask for a bowl of bloodwine instead of the meager goblets they had.</p><p>“Doh’Val.”</p><p>It was Vudic. Of course it was. “Your brothers sent me to look for you.” He then inquired with caution, “You are distressed. Is there something the others need to know?”</p><p>He dabbed his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “N-no, it is not important.”</p><p>Those blue eyes which made his knees weak did not believe him. “Doh’Val, they have very little trust in us. If something has occurred, we must know.”</p><p>“It is personal.” That servant needed to hurry.</p><p>His expression softened. “Then tell me so I can help.”</p><p><em>Damn you, Kuvjak. And damn you, Vudic</em>. “A friend,” he began, unable to look at him, “a friend told me that, that I should give up on something I want very much.”</p><p>Vudic took on the contemplative expression he always wore when attempting to solve a problem. As his nature, he considered all the information before him. “I am not persuaded by your friend’s logic. Not without more information, of course.”</p><p>He needed to ask. “Why?”</p><p>“The Talas Conference was something you wanted very much, and you achieved your goal. Meeting Seu Minjaral was something you wanted very much as was meeting Krax. And impressing your patron was something you wanted very much. You have achieved all of these goals, some at great personal peril and expense.” He nodded in satisfaction at his answer. “Perhaps if your friend had been presented these evidence, he may draw a different conclusion.”</p><p>“What would that be?”</p><p>“In the time that I have known you, I have observed your resilience, your resourcefulness, and your strength of character. I am confident that you should not give up pursuing whatever this thing is that you want very much.” He added with confusion, “Although, the friends you have spoken of are ones you have known for a long time, and I would expect them to know all of these things already.”</p><p>For a moment, he almost believed it. “Do you really think those things about me are true?”</p><p>His infatuating sly almost-smile. “I do not engage in flattery. You know this.” He narrowed his eyes in thought as he added, “Of course, you are illogical like many emotional species. Your friend may perceive what you want as a threat to—”</p><p>The servant interrupted with the bowl of bloodwine. He didn’t need it so badly now. “Tell my brothers I will be there in a moment.” He couldn’t let Vudic finish that line of inquiry.</p><p>Vudic nodded, turning away.</p><p>“Wait!”</p><p>He stopped. “Yes?”</p><p>“I...Thank you. For talking to me and giving me perspective.”</p><p>A soft almost-smile. “You are welcome. I will find your brothers.”</p><p>Doh’Val watched Vudic leave, emotions fluttering in his breast like leaves in the wind. He was torn. But he knew in the end, he needed to heed Kuvjak’s warning. He would drink himself into oblivion, go to the edge of his mother’s fields, and scream until all the pain had been cleansed from his soul. No one would question his actions; it had been a very stressful time.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. An Evening at Home, A Bottle of Kanar, and Thou</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The red sun hung just above the golden trees in the citrine sky, and Minjaral was laying in the warm light of the waning day on the bench behind the house, his head lost in the space between meditation and dozing off. It was quiet with Doh’Val gone to visit his friend Whatever-That-Name-Was for the evening, his parents visiting the older children, and Vudic back on his homeworld. Just him and Krax with the run of the house. </p><p>Morath, son of Mohm, loved the performance so much that he demanded a series of five more. Minjaral and Krax, of course, found little reason to refuse. They would live in comfort as guests of a hospitable and well-respected family, plus the compensation. And, he admitted to himself, staying here composing with the other three would be like nothing else he’d ever done. But, today was for him alone. Morath, Son of Mohm, can have tomorrow. </p><p>Music drifted outside as the backdoor slid open. He perked up just enough to see Krax in the doorway. He put his head back down. </p><p>“You want food?” Two months living together, and still, that silky indigo voice wasn’t yet quotidian. The voice compelled him to back inside. </p><p>The family gathering room contained a stone fire-pit in the center with couches designed for leaning; anachronistic light fixture from the ceiling programmed to mimic candlelight. To his surprise, Krax had taken up residence on one of the couches with a bunch of little containers  spread out on a round side-table. “What? You think I want to use that dining room?” </p><p>Thick drapes were drawn over the many slit-like windows. Without the family, communal spaces were easier to use. He studied each container in search of the special food the family now prepared which agreed with his body. </p><p>Quiet. He didn’t talk as he ate, and neither did Krax. Away from wonderful sunlight, he now remembered his lack of shirt. It wasn’t just the scars he regretted. Discolorations, pits, missing scales, and all these imperfections inflicted on him by the currents of his life. Not one mark had been put there by he himself. At times, it felt like a body he was just borrowing rather than his own. </p><p>He then noticed Krax wore loose, plain clothes. He was smaller and softer. Two large, lumpy breasts pressed against the tunic. </p><p>And now Krax noticed that he noticed. </p><p>And he noticed that Krax noticed that he noticed. </p><p>And Krax was now noticing that he noticed that Krax noticed that he noticed. </p><p>And now he notic—</p><p> </p><p>"The other two,” asked Krax, returning to his food. He gingerly shifted to flatten himself out. “They’re married, yes?” The moment had passed. Thank the Prophets.</p><p>He shrugged, mindfully keeping his eyes on his food. “I never thought to ask, and I never thought of it as anything I deserved to know.” </p><p>“Of course, of course.” The insinuating words were on the tip of his tongue. “...But you should know. Their parents think they are.” </p><p>This time he had to look up. “How do you know that?”</p><p>"What do you think these are for?" he demanded, pointing at his ears. He shifted himself once more; no matter where he was or what he was doing, Krax never seemed comfortable enough to stay still. “The ambiguity—I don’t like it. Something feels wrong here. A person shouldn’t leave too many things unsaid.” </p><p>“Maybe it is one-sided.” He found himself repeating someone else’s words, “They said Vulcans do not, ah, feel the way that others do.” </p><p>Krax snorted. “Whoever told you that has maggots for brains.” He cocked one fleshy hairless brow. “Everyone underestimates what I can hear and how well I hear it. Double when I was a waiter. And I can tell you—just from overhearing a lot of conversations that people thought were private—you are wrong. They feel what everyone else feels. It’s different. But it is not that different.” He shook his head with a soft groan. “Those two. They need to decide what they want, and soon. The indecision makes me nervous.” </p><p>Minjaral reflected on their host’s behavior since the first concert and Vudic’s departure some days ago: he drank bloodwine during the day, a habit he never before showed; he was brash and quick to anger, but it was an anger that always fizzled out within moments and followed with an apology; he spent more days away from the house to visit others, and while Minjaral didn’t begrudge him because this place was his home, it felt like an abandonment of his duties as host; he couldn’t understand the language, but he did sometimes awake to muttering and whispering outside his door, the sound of Doh’Val and his parents talking, and in the sea of unintelligible words he picked out names—such as ‘Vudic.’ Krax was right. They should both be nervous. </p><p>A shiver of cold went through Minjaral. He set down his meal long enough to find the floor panel for the fire pit, a giant column extending out of the stonework to the ceiling with an ornate cage and dozens of small doors to adjust the light or heat. In moments, orange light filled the cage with a pleasant hum, and he felt the same heat of the fires on his hearth at home. He noticed Krax frowning at his own thoughts. Well, he would say something when he was ready. </p><p>“...This composing business. That’s what you do for profit, right?” </p><p>He looked up at the ceiling because the answer required more explanation than he realized. “For money, I teach. The rest of it, I do for myself and others, but not for money. I do not care much about the money I am earning here; I came because Doh’Val needed me.” </p><p>He didn’t need to see Krax to catch his suspicion. “What rest of it?” </p><p>Recalling everything took a few moments. “...Ah, conferences, writing with others, performing—what else—ah, music preservation—”</p><p>“Stop, stop, stop. You do all of that? For no profit?!” </p><p>Minjaral stayed on the floor where the air was perfectly in his mesothermic range and picked up the rest of his meal. “I have no reason. What I lack, I ask other hybrids because we take care of each other—the ones on Bajor.” </p><p>Krax sputtered in confusion. “But, but what do you do at these conferences?!” </p><p>He would leave out the strange years spent representing Bajor at off-world conferences when its government finally formed and being told not to answer the questions he was inevitably asked about the life of hybrids on Homeworld. “Meet other musicians and people are curious about each other’s work. And if we can, we make music together.” </p><p>Krax’s many scoffs and snorts made him realized that there was so much about Krax’s life that Minjaral did not fundamentally understand, not just the circumstances but the interior life. He never thought to conceal what he was—the opportunity never presented itself. The way the Ferengi scrunched up himself to hide his chest said more than any words which had passed between them. Minjaral stared into the warm orange glow of the fire column. An idea came to him.</p><p>“Krax, there is something else I do at conferences.” The rest of his meal could wait. “Many times, I am the only hybrid from Bajor that people have met. I tell them about the truth of life on Homeworld.” He couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto his face. “We had more than just pain under the Occupation.” </p><p>Krax perked up, dark beady eyes glittering with intrigue. “And people listen.”</p><p>“Yes.” Mostly, but he’d wouldn’t mention that part. “Wait here.” </p><p>The red sun was beginning to drown behind the golden trees. On the bench where he’d be laying, he found the gray tablet he wanted. This would be perfect: not only would he convinced Krax to publicly prove that he was Musician 52366, he would demonstrate the power of being able to represent one’s culture in places where that culture is not respected or understood. He traveled with a curated collection of images of life under the Occupation; yes, there had been enormous heartache, but there had also been resilience and hope and courage. Surely, Krax carried the same images with him, reminders that even the worst oppressors could not break him or take away the place that would always be his home. </p><p>The all-important question: for Krax, which image should he start with? His fingers riffled through what he could find on the tablet until the perfect one presented itself. “Ah, this one, you will like this one.” </p><p>The image was four hybrid women: young, strong with their shapely arms and fully-exposed neck ridges, thin robes secured by thinner belts to give the illusion of a neckline running all the way to their navels, smiling with menace and lazily playing with their chain-knives. Krax studied the image but instead of fawning over it the way he did with his host’s mother (or any other woman they’d encountered), he kept his pensive expression. His eyes flicked up and Minjaral, then back at the image, up again, down again, up a third time, down once more, and then: “...What happened to their hair?” </p><p>He looked at the images so often that he sometimes forgot about the full picture. “Oh, oh yes, they plucked it. The style at the time for anyone who serviced officers.” The early Occupation days included a superstition that the smell of a Cardassian would stick in one’s hair like a stain that could never be washed away—better to not mention that. “Well? Aren’t they beautiful?”</p><p>Krax didn’t answer right away. “Yes,” he said finally, but not with the same enthusiasm that Minjaral had expected. He added apologetically as he handed back the tablet, “I like meeting females more than looking at pictures of them.” </p><p>“What about your homeworld?” Yes, at last, a window into Krax’s life! “You have something too, right?”</p><p>A little hemming and hawing, but he did finally produce his own tablet. He protected the screen from Minjaral’s eager gaze. “I am certain I have something here….” </p><p>He could wait as long as Krax needed. Looking through the curated collection always brought back potent memories: A young hybrid, someone he never met, and a Bajoran on a hill on a warm sunny day (everyone else always pointed out the smoke of the labor camp behind them); a portrait of Nima’s home with her husband and the many children he grew up, all scrubbed and dressed in their finest and smiling outside the house (he wished people would focus less on their missing noses and injured limbs); him younger and with much longer hair, the hybrid prostitute he was in love with, and the rough rogues who protected him because they liked his music (they asked too many questions about the prostitute but it was better than questions about the others); a big knot of hybrids and Bajorans gathered together around a table in a cellar, celebrating and preparing before an assault (how dare anyone say that hybrids were never part of the Resistance!). </p><p>“Have you find anything?” he asked. What would Krax show him?</p><p>Krax did not sound confident as he answered, “Oh! Just looking for the perfect one!” </p><p>He furrowed his brow. “Do you not have them ready—”</p><p>“Profits and Lace!” he groaned loudly, tossing down the tablet on the couch. “I can’t do this!” He fell back against the cushions. “Minjal, I don’t like lying to you, so I won’t. I don’t have anything. Nothing.”</p><p>It took him a few moments to process the full meaning. “Not a single picture of home?”</p><p>“No! I—” He raked his hands over his face. “Females are not allowed to wear clothes on Ferenginar and, well, if I had any pictures—you know what I’m saying, yes?” </p><p>Unfortunately, Minjaral did not. </p><p>Krax groaned again. “I...Listen, eaving Ferenginar wasn’t...well, legal. But! I pay my fair share of tribute like any good Ferengi male!” He kept looking away from Minjaral. “If I go back, I will be arrested. With pictures, someone will recognize me, and then I’m good as dead.” </p><p>In retrospect, it seemed so obvious but Minjaral hadn’t seen it. He was too caught up in trying to guide Krax toward...what he thought Krax should be. He wasn’t being a very helpful friend. “What do you have?” </p><p>An embarrassed smile spread over his face as he bit his lip. “You need to understand: I never, ever ask for them. The dabo girls insist on sending them to me!” </p><p>He was quick enough to snatch the tablet before Krax could rescue it. This was troubling. If there was something in his past that the others should know—</p><p>The first image he found was a new holo-image, the type that contained a five-second animation. A Bajoran woman with wine-dark eyes and bark-brown hair and clay-white hair, naked and very proud of that fact. Her body language was clear. The words changed, but he had enough experience to pick up when the new generation’s slang said, “I want sex with you now.”</p><p>Krax snatched it back. “They are not for your eyes!” He sounded offended. Like—of course! Like he had no right prying into those women’s lives. Minjaral couldn’t help smiling. Grumbling, he went back to protecting the screen with one hand. “They would send them to me for my opinion before presenting it to their idiot male lovers.” </p><p>“I understand.” Krax’s affection and protectiveness of the dabo girls, even now, made Minjaral’s heart light. </p><p>++++++++++++</p><p>“—Alright, so—Minjal! Stop laughing and let me finish!”  Krax swatted at him and no longer cared about how high and feminine his voice sounded. The bottle of kanar was almost empty and neither were certain where it all went.</p><p>Kanar was a tricky thing yet somehow, Morath could afford to bring a case to Qo’noS without a single bottle spoiling, and he gifted all of it to Minjaral. Should he have been offended by the offer of something his conquerors prized? Perhaps, but it was also something Minjaral had acquired a taste for during the Occupation, and a few people on Bajor still made it. He basked in the warmth of the giant orange fire pit and gave the bottle one last shake to test how much was left. “You were saying about taking that man’s money?” </p><p>“I did not take it!” he giggled. “I told you, the dabo girls did!” He was stretched out along the couch, no longer fidgeting or worrying about how he looked. It was the most relaxed either of them had ever been since meeting. “Everyone underestimates dabo girls, you know. I think, without a doubt, they are most clever, the most discerning, and the most dexterous of any female to ever live.”</p><p>“Oh, Prophets, I am certain that you say the same about all females.” </p><p>“Fine, don’t believe me. But I’m right.” </p><p>The side of his face hurt because he’d been smiling so much. Music was still drifting around the house. Something soothing with the colors of spring. He poured out the last of the kanar into his drinking bowl. </p><p>“You’re easy to talk to, Minjal. Much easier than the other two.” He yawned through his words, “What do you think will happen when Vudic comes back?”</p><p>“Nothing that hasn’t happened already.” He had pieced together that he was the oldest, closer in age to Vudic’s mother than anyone else. Thus he spoke from experience when he said, “The anticipation is usually much more interesting than getting what one wants.” </p><p>Krax had a silly grin on his face. “Getting what you want can be pretty interesting too.” And then, when his smile dropped: “So, how much longer are we expected to stay here?”  </p><p>Minjaral paused mid-sip. “...I assumed we would leave when our papers expired.” This place still had its novelty, but that would wear thin in time. They had lives beyond here. “Doh’Val knows we are here temporarily.”</p><p>“How certain are you of that.” He wasn’t playful anymore. “We never signed a contract.” </p><p>A dark thought flitted through his mind. He put down his drinking bowl. </p><p>Krax pushed himself up and rolled onto his feet. “Come. I have something to show you.”  </p><p>The Ferengi kept his room very bright, making Minjaral squint and shade his face to get a good look at anything. Once his eye adjusted, he found a room stuffed with personal items and decor, trinkets and artifacts, the trappings one fully expected in a materialist’s room. Of course, the arrangement of these objects was quite tidy so everything had a place. It seemed frivolous. Why wasn’t Krax saving for the trip home if he had no intention of staying? </p><p>“You must be wondering where I got all this,” he prompted, clearly invited him to ask the obvious question. </p><p>“I thought you brought it with,” Minjaral lied. </p><p>He snorted. “I think you are a good liar when your life requires it. Every other time, you are terrible.” He took a sip from his bowl. “I bought all of this. Selling these should turn me a good profit. More than enough to take me to Federation space. Come now. Just ask me.”</p><p>“Ask what?”</p><p>“What you want to know! ‘Krax, how are you able to have so many beautiful things when we have only been here for two months?’”</p><p>“I think a lot of them are ugly.”</p><p>“Hush. I will show you anyways.” He went to the wardrobe and produced a large holo-camera and its tripod. He beamed with pride. “My best investment.” </p><p>Minjaral wasn’t following. What did this have to do with the extra things? </p><p>“How can someone so brilliant lack such imagination!” he groaned. “I have other patrons!”</p><p>The full force of the revelation came slowly at first, then swept through like the pain of a disruptor hit. Glee and anxiety followed. “I—How!”</p><p>“Just like what I did on the space station except people see me this time. Live broadcasts over the Qo’noS Planet-Net or prepared recordings. Yes, I can’t read Klingon properly, but I don’t need to with the right translators. Doh’Val doesn’t even know he’s helping me with these half of the time when he corrects my grammar.” He snickered and added, “The best part about all of this: having Morath as a patron means I can charge more than I did on the station.” </p><p>So many questions came into his mind, but one dominated. “Why are you telling me this?”</p><p>Krax set down the holo-camera. “Because Vudic and Doh’Val have their alliance. Why can’t we have our own? I like you, I think you like me—” “Yes, Krax, I do like you” “—Right! But, more importantly: if I could do what you do with music, I would be rich from the songs I sold. I would have a home on one of those resort planets. I...I would have everything I could ever want.” His voice dropped. “The two of us already work for Doh’Val’s patron. Why not work for ourselves?”</p><p>Money was extremely seductive. But then a different idea came to him. “What if we went to a conference? Where people care about how you compose and not what you compose?”</p><p>Krax frowned. “That does not sound like a good way to acquire profit.”</p><p>“I already said, the goal is not profit. I have a conference on Bajor that I must attend soon.” He may have to withdraw from presenting, unfortunately, all due to this massive detour. But Krax could stand in for him. “You that you are almost a myth to my colleagues. They will treat you like—” he looked for the perfect phrase. “—the way I treat you.” It was his best argument. </p><p>Feminine inflection crept into his voice. “Are you certain?”</p><p>“They will treat you like you belong. They would be foolish otherwise.” </p><p>“Then we are not coming back here.”</p><p>“No. Go back to the space station if you want, I will not stop you. But I think when you prove yourself at just one conference, every person I know will open their home and let you live there as long as you want. Profit? Feh. You will want for nothing simply because of your talent.”</p><p>“Hmm. I must start selling right away.” He shrugged. “No great loss. Things can be replaced.” </p><p>A startling attitude from a Ferengi. Minjaral considered further to realize that Krax had developed the attitude out of necessity. Not only were quarters on the space station small but he had traveled extensively before that. One couldn’t become attached to possessions or their loss would break one’s heart each time, no matter how precious or sentimental they were. </p><p>Krax had begun setting up the camera. “Get your flute.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Good transport will come at a high price. Ground transport, the shuttles, everything. We deserve the best. Tonight, we earn the first stretch of our trip.”</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Nine Months After Performance Day</h2></a>
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    <p>OFFICIAL NOTICE FROM THE FEDERATION LEGAL CONSORTIUM</p><p>To the following recipients<br/>Vudic, Son of Talok, Jalal<br/>Krax, Son of Rhoon<br/>Doh’Val, Son of Carl, House Seu</p><p>As is granted to all protectorate territories of the Federation (See Constitutional Amendment ɑ-34), any civilian held on a Starfleet space station may request up to three civilian non-legal advocates who may accompany the civilian through all legal proceedings and speak on behalf of the civilian if the civilian chooses not to speak with UFP Legal Consortium officials.</p><p>Seu Minjaral, citizen of planet Bajor, protectorate of the Federation (Refer to Treaty UFP-π-235 ratified in 2375), is currently being detained at Space Station Maryam following his failure to pass without incident through a security checkpoint. In compliance with the new 2379 treaty between Bajor and the Cardassian Union (See Article 4, §42, Subsection Ω-π, Chp. 3, ¶ 5 through 19), all people are required to pass through Bajoran-maintained security checkpoints. Mr. Seu was on his way to Cardassian Space when security required him to delay his travel. Mr. Seu is cooperating fully with both members of Starfleet Security and Bajoran Planetary Security, and he has not been charged with any crimes. However, the circumstances surrounding Mr. Seu have required his holding at this time. </p><p>Mr. Seu is considered a “person of interest” in the interstellar investigation initiated by the UFP Data Consortium in 2375 and therefore requires holding. Due to the nature of the investigation, all “persons of interest” must meet with the head of the investigation, Senior Analyst Nikolai Florian Gastonovich LeVanne.  </p><p>Mr. Seu has selected you, the recipients, as his advocates. Acceptance of this summons is voluntary. By accepting the summons, advocates also agree to undergo questioning in connection to the investigation. All persons will be housed in Class Gamma legal quarters during their stay. Advocates have 72 standard Federation hours to accept this summon. Upon acceptance, transport will be arranged and provided via Starfleet. </p><p>[Federation Seal]</p>
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